Him.
Not to me.
My mind is racing to think about anything but the image of Andrew McCormick, who is turned away from me, his broad, muscled back on display. His charcoal suit jacket is draped casually over the leather club chair across from his desk. He’s looking out the glass wall and over the city. A few floors below I see the Pac-Man-based topiary for the game design company in the building next door.
As I peer closer, I realize they have added a dog run.
And is that a pool...filled with dogs?
Huh. Note to self: run a database query on DoggieDate to see how many employees from that company are on DoggieDate, and suggest marketing to them as part of overall strategy for strengthening new accounts.
See? I’m good. As good as Shannon.
Anterdec should hire me.
Andrew spins around in his Herman Miller chair and holds one finger up to me. His face is intense, eyes dark in concentration, and he’s coiled with the kind of frustration that comes from negotiations that are stalled. The telephone conversation he’s having is one that probably requires more privacy, but I instinctively do as told and wait in place.
As I lift his suit jacket from the chair, his cologne fills the air.
It takes every bit of self control I possess not to huff it like a little kid with fruit-scented markers and no adult supervision.
My fingertips can’t help it. They’ve seceded from my rational mind, stroking the fine cloth that has just been resting against those cultured pecs minutes before. The cloth is warm, still, as if he shed the jacket seconds before I walked in. It’s almost like being in his arms last night.
Almost.
The pale imitation is worse than nothing. I would rather never, ever see him again than sit here, trying not to lick the wool weave, using every ounce of restraint I possess to maintain a professional exterior that shows my true nature.
I am a fixer.
I can fix this.
I can fix me.
Andrew ends the call and gives me his full attention. It’s like drinking from a trickle at a water fountain and suddenly having a fire hose aimed at your face.
A sensual, sultry, hot-as-Hades fire hose.
“I assume you’ve kept your mouth shut?” he starts.
Nothing like cutting to the chase. I see what this meeting is about. We’re here to talk business. The business of keeping his secret about becoming the new CEO of Anterdec Industries. Nothing more. I can play this game.
“Except when you’re kissing me.”
Or I can play my own game. My rules. My board. My pieces.
My tongue.
The way he tilts his head just so as his mouth tightens, then spreads into a smile is like watching a rainbow form in the sky.
“I appreciate that.” His voice goes low and suggestive. Flirty, even. I’m not imagining this.
“Open-mouthed kisses? I noticed.” I match his tone.
He blinks repeatedly, the smile impossible to suppress. Dimples. Dear God, he has the McCormick dimples. Of course he does. His family’s DNA has more dimples in it than Tom Brady’s.
“I was talking about silence,” he says, standing quite suddenly. The movement may be abrupt, but his animal grace is studied. He knows how his body affects mine. Andrew McCormick is a master at knowing how to read other people.
He has a problem, though.
So am I.
Andrew has tells. One eyebrow quirks up right now as he gives away the fact that he’s less self-assured than he was when I entered the room. The open discussion about kissing is intriguing him, but it’s not distracting him. This meeting has a purpose.
And he’s determined to stay focused.
“Silence. You mean the kind of silence that comes after being kissed by you? Or the kind of silence you assume you can kiss your way into?” I ask.
The eyebrow goes down. His face goes slack. Those smoldering eyes narrow.
Now I have his full attention.
“I kissed you because you were about to spill a family secret at a less-than-opportune time.”
I look pointedly at the door to the closet in his office. “Really? Which time? After your spin session right there?” I motion toward the door. “Or after Shannon swallowed your mother’s engagement ring?”
“You know perfectly well which time.” His voice is full of an amused smoothness. Instead of resuming his seat behind the desk, he walks around and sits on the edge, manspreading in front of me, a foot and a half the only space between us.
There goes that cologne again.
“I do?” My words come out breathy, like Marilyn Monroe running after the ice cream truck. “It’s getting hard to keep track of all the kisses. I’m nearly ready to draw up a spreadsheet.”
“Would you like my assistant to create a database instead?”
“Do you plan to enter me that many times?”
He inhales sharply, then leans forward with the intention of a man who needs to confirm a fact. His hands are folded, forearms resting on his thighs. My mind races to process what I just said.
What I should have said is Do you plan to enter me into the database that many times? but I didn’t.
What I actually said is not what I meant to say, but that doesn’t matter now, does it?
Too late.
The skin around his eyes moves with amusement and a hint of something so dangerous I can’t breathe.
“That depends,” he says quietly.
“On what?” The less I say, the better.
“On whether you’ll slap me every time I,” he clears his throat suggestively, “enter you.” He smiles, the innuendo giving me permission to smile back. “In the database, I mean.”
“Well, now, that depends,” I reply, matching his voice, trying so hard to keep this light and fun. That’s all it is, right? We’re just sparring partners taking verbal jabs at each other, with kisses as the topic. I tell myself this because if our conversation means something less, then it won’t hurt when he ignores me again, and if it means more, then—